


I Got Soul, But I'm Not A Soldier

by writerchick0214



Series: All These Things That I've Done [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Clint has a cane, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, PTSD, Phil still works for SHIELD, Soldier Clint, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerchick0214/pseuds/writerchick0214
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton, injured Iraq war veteran, walks into a cafe during his first month back stateside in ten years. There he meets seemingly unassuming Phil Coulson, who immediately captures Clint's attention.</p>
<p>This is an ongoing series. Ratings, tags, and warning will change as it continues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Got Soul, But I'm Not A Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to a documentary, The Hurt Locker, my (very) strange brain, and TheSparrow's encouragement this was born. The series is unfinished, so keep an eye out for more installments.
> 
> Please note that Phil is still working at SHIELD, and the Avengers are still together. The only person who has led a different life is Clint.

          Clint struggled with the heavy glass door, barely managing to catch it before hitting his hip. Still a little unbalanced, unused to his new weight distribution and the cane now almost permanently in his left hand, he found day to day activities to a challenge. The bell that signaled his entranced caused a few heads to turn, warranting unwanted attention. Clint knew he should be surprised by how different the café looked (after almost ten years away, _everything_ seemed different) but the sight of new paint and tiles jarred him at first. The coffee had always been great so business had never been slow, but Clint couldn’t remember ever seeing it so busy; two steps inside and he was stuck in a long line. Mindless chatter filled the air, the fresh aroma of coffee making Clint feel a little better about the changes, and a little more at home.

            Discomfort set in quickly, the dull ache in his hip beginning to spread down his left leg. Clint adjusted his stance and his grip on the cane, trying in vain to lessen the pain. A little girl waiting with her mother was staring at Clint-or, more specifically, Clint’s cane.

“Mommy, look,” She said, loud enough for people to hear. She tugged on her mom’s jacket. “Mommy, that man has a cane like grandpa.”

Her mother turned around, comment dying on her lips. For a long moment she looked embarrassed, eyes wide and apologetic when they met Clint’s He waved her off, forcing a smile on his face because what else was he supposed to do? An older woman muttered about rude children, and a college-aged boy snickered, trying to hide it behind a cough when Clint frowned.

            As the pain grew, Clint tried to ignore the bottle of oxymorphone rattling around in the pocket of his hoodie. The doctor recommended he take them every four hours but he hadn’t taken any since he left the hospital. Moving in line both alleviated and worsened the pain. On one hand, walking relieved the cramping, but at the same time it also jarred his injuries. Clint didn’t recognize the woman at the cash register and he felt his heart drop at the realization that Becky (the old cashier) had probably graduated college and gotten a real job. Sarah was friendly, smiled and didn’t even glance at Clint’s cane when she took his order (large coffee, black, and a turkey sandwich).

            “Clint?” Sarah jumped at the loud voice, laughing when a tall, broad man with a beard walked up beside her. “Clint Barton, is that you?”

            It took Clint a second to recognize the man in front of him but when he did he couldn’t help but smile. “Bobby! Man, it’s great to see a familiar face. You got _old_.”

            Bobby had to be nearing fifty now, still dressed in the same plaid shirt and Levis. His hair and beard were peppered with grey and his wrinkles were more prominent, but it was still the same Bobby who took a liking to Clint, back when he was still a lost teenager.

            Bobby only laughed. “And you’re all grown up. How old are you now?”

            Clint faltered, momentarily forgetting his age. “I’ll be twenty-eight soon.”

            “Could you finish this reunion later?” A man behind Clint interrupted. “You’re holding up the line.”

            “How about you show some respect?” Bobby snarled, bracing his large hands on the counter.

            “Bobby,” Clint said, holding up his hands. “Don’t. It’s alright.”

            Bobby hesitated but backed down. “I’ll come catch up with you when I finish my paperwork,” he said, and handed Clint his order. “On the house.”

            Clint tried to argue but Bobby only waved him off and walked to the back. With a sigh Clint turned back to the crowd, mood falling even farther when he realized there weren’t any empty seats. Balancing his coffee and sandwich precariously in one hand and his cane in the other, Clint felt painfully out of place. People were beginning to stare, a table of teenaged girls pointing while they whispered to one another.

            “Would you like to take a seat?” Someone asked just as he had decided to leave, resigned to eat once he got home.

            Clint looked up (and when had he looked down?) to come face to face with a man in a very expensive looking suit. He was middle-aged with a receding hairline and crows feet, but he had the most gorgeous blue eyes Clint had ever seen. The man was plain, unassuming, even, but his posture was perfect and Clint could see solid muscle mass moving under the luxurious fabric of his jacket. Everything about the man screamed competence.

            “Sorry?” Clint asked, forcing himself to stop staring.

            “I asked if you wanted to sit.” He didn’t smile, but his lips quirked up in the corners. He gestured to a two person table in the corner littered with papers. His eyes flicked down to Clint’s cane.

            “Ah.” Clint wiggled the fingers holding the cane, a flush creeping up his neck. “Yeah, that would be great.”

            Unused to the kindness of strangers, Clint tentatively followed the man, setting his meal down once the papers had been moved.  He eyed the chair angrily, trying to work up the strength to sit down. Finally fathering the nerves, Clint gripped the table tightly and gently lowered himself onto the chair. It hurt, badly, and Clint was barely able to hold back the groan of pain.

            “Iraq?” The man asked, face neutral. His eyes were kind and understanding, though.

            Clint glanced at the dog tags handing around his neck, slowly getting tangled with the hood strings. “Yeah,” he responded, massaging his hip and thigh. It helped ease the pain, if only slightly. “Just got back stateside about a month ago.”

            The man watched him, analyzing, before holding out a hand. “Phil Coulson,” he introduced.

            Clint took it, feeling familiar callouses on the other man’s hand. “Clint Barton.”

            They settled into a comfortable silence while Clint ate his sandwich and Phil worked, tapping away on a brand of tablet he had never seen before. The throbbing grew as he ate and even though he was wearing his most comfortable pair of jeans, Clint wished he was wearing sweats.

            “Do you have anything for the pain?” Phil asked, looking at him from over his tablet.

            “Yeah.” Clint pulled his pills out, tossing them on the table with disgust. “I can’t take them, though.”

            Phil raised a questioning eyebrow but didn’t ask.

            Clint was grateful.

            “So,” Phil began, making a tidy pile out of the folders he was finished with. “You know the man that works here, then?”

            “Oh, yeah.” Clint leaned back in his seat, stretching his bad leg out. “I came in here _years_ ago, back when I was still a kid and this place was a dump.”

            Phil chuckled then. It was soft, barely there, but Clint could see the way his shoulders shook. “This is my first time here; a little busy, but the coffee is delicious.”

            Clint grinned. “When I walked in I was worried Bobby sold the place. Coffee is still as good as ever, thankfully.”

            To prove a point, Clint took a large sip from his cup, ignoring the way it burned. They were silent again but Clint didn’t mind. It had been a long time since he had been able to just sit and think. Even the commotion of the other patrons was east to drown out, to ignore. Phil went back to his work and Clint wondered what he was doing, but decided against asking. After a while the crowd died down and left the café half empty. There were empty tables now, which left Clint to wonder whether he should move or not.

            “Clint,” Phil started, sounding like he was going to ask a question. He was interrupted by Bobby joining them.

            “Clint, my boy,” Bobby greeted, grinning from ear to ear. He clapped Clint on the shoulder, more gently than he used to. Clint scowled at his cane like it was its fault. “Glad you stuck around.”

            “I couldn’t leave without saying bye.” Clint took another sip of his coffee, nursing the final dregs.

            Bobby looked between Clint and Phil, grin widening.

            “No, Bobby,” Clint said, stopping Bobby before the man could say anything. “This is Phil. He was nice enough to share a table with me.”

            Bobby’s grin dropped a little with what looked like disappointment. “Oh, well that’s kind of you, Phil. I’m Bobby, the owner.”

            Phil shook Bobby’s hand, eyes lit up with amusement. He complimented Bobby on the coffee and the ambiance, setting his things aside so he could pay attention to the conversation. Sarah called for Bobby a few minutes later, asking for his assistance.

            “Don’t be a stranger, kid,” Bobby said before leaving. “Ten years is way too long.”

            “Of course.” Bobby bent down to give Clint a brief, but loving hug. “I’ll come by in a day or two, promise.”

            “He seems nice,” Phil said once Bobby was gone.

            “He is.” Clint put the bottle of pills back in his pocket and finished his coffee.

            “This might be forward,” Phil said, stopping Clint from standing, “And please, feel free to turn me down; but I was wondering if you would like to go out on a date with me.”

            “A-date?” Clint asked, confused.

            “I’m sorry.” Phil began packing his things neatly into a leather briefcase. “I must have read the signs wrong. My apologies.”

            He wouldn’t meet Clint’s eyes.

            “What-no. Don’t leave.” Clint tried to stand quickly but fell back to his seat with a wince. “You didn’t read anything wrong. I was just surprised, is all.”

            “Why so surprised?” Phil settled back.

            “Well, people don’t usually peg me as gay.” He looked down at himself. “And you’re…you, and I’m me.”

            “You’re right.” Phil folded his hands on the table in front of him. “I couldn’t tell at first, especially since you’re ex-military. Even with DADT gone, most men who wear a uniform tend to keep that a secret. But I had a hunch. And yes, you are you, and I’m me. What does that mean, exactly?”

            “I mean _look_ at you.” Clint gestured towards Phil.

            “I’m a boring, middle-aged, balding man in a suit,” Phil said dismissively. “And you’re an extremely attractive, _not_ boring man at least ten years my junior. The bigger question is, what would you want with a man like me?”

            “You’re kidding me, right?” Clint laughed. “I’m twenty-eight and already need a cane. Probably will for the rest of my life. I’m covered in scars, and I have an ugly nose.”

            Phil grinned, wide and real. “I like your nose.”  

**Author's Note:**

> Since this series isn't completed yet, I am very open to suggestions and requests. 
> 
> Title and series title comes from the song by The Killers.


End file.
